


All The Time In The World

by Schgain



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Non-Binary Character, Coming to terms with existence is tough, Introspection, Just some general thoughts and feelings, Mentions of Paloma June Ren and Istus also, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Mind Control, Spoilers for The Eleventh Hour, partially based on A Softer World
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 15:56:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8167643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schgain/pseuds/Schgain
Summary: After The Eleventh Hour, after all that's happened, Roswell takes some much-needed time for themself to reflect.





	

The sun is shining, and the birds are singing. And because today is the very last day, they will sing forever. 

Listen while you can. 

 

 

Things like wanting, coherent thoughts, freedom... These are new to Roswell. 

Well, not really. Roswell has always known that they are _more_. More than the average golem, they breathe magic cast from dying wishes and watchful cups. They know they are more to themself than any other elemental could comprehend being, but without the constraints of Junebug leave them feeling as if maybe they had been shackled after all. 

Or, they think, that might be the fact that they weigh a grand total of three ounces now, instead of some four hundred pounds of solid red clay in a suit of armor, and three ounces. 

But now Roswell wants, and thinks before doing, and is entirely truly free, and they have no idea what to do with this. What do they want, exactly? 

They want June to be safe. Of this they are certain; trigger word or no they want to protect her, wholeheartedly, truly, in any way they can. Even if protecting her now is perched on her shoulder and letting her make them a new bird-sized sheriff's badge for their bandana, listening to her talk about the Davy Lamp, and singing to her old mining shanties they'd learnt from Isaak. This, Roswell knows, is love. And they think of all things considered, wanting to love and be loved is not a very tall order at all. 

They want... Refuge to be safe. This too, seems as inherent and natural as being alive, probably because they are one and the same. Though they are no longer the soil of this town, they were born from it, and they love Refuge, and chains of old words be damned they will continue their duty as long as they need. They will be the Sheriff. 

These are their wants, and they are pleased but not terribly surprised by what they are. The only thing that changed between now and before is whether or not they'd be forced to comply if unwilling. 

Roswell, thinking instead of doing now, finds themself thinking a lot. 

What's beyond Refuge. What Jack is up to, wherever he is. Who the nice lady in the Temple talks to sometimes, when she thinks no one can hear. What the Davy Lamp is cooking for dinner. What song is playing, what June is doing. 

Sometimes, they think of Isaak. 

Roswell isn't too good with human mannerisms, and hadn't been even when their big body was humanoid. But they had read, in their time of Refuge, all the books that had been given to them, and they certainly had watched the faces of many a person, both guilty and innocent. So when they think of Isaak, Roswell can allude to the feeling of what humans might call a lump in their throat. 

Isaak, wrong his actions may have been. Isaak, selfish and quick to draw, Isaak, who killed a man in front of his daughter. Isaak who neglected Refuge for a pack of smokes and an old ledger. Isaak, who every time Roswell said something he didn't like, spat out that awful word that made their mind clear and cloudy at the same time and every little bit of emotion stagnate behind their eyes. 

But... Roswell can't help but think of the same Isaak who played an old beat up guitar on the porch. The Isaak who sang slow mining songs under his breath. Isaak who taught them to read and count and sing. Isaak who saw them stare at the general store's window display and bought them the pink dress with the red ribbon even though it never really fit their clay body right and the straw hats would never stay on their heads. 

They can't wear that dress anymore, they're too small. But Isaak had tipped the brim of his hat over his eyes and hastily shoved the dress box into Roswell's hands before clicking his tongue. And Roswell knew he meant well, and that somehow the dress was his way of apologizing. 

Roswell thinks about that dress a lot, the same they think about their other body a lot. It's a strange mix of thought and want that Miss Paloma had described as "longing". Things they can express freely, because of the last thing. 

Freedom.

Junebug, big body, bubble, duty, Isaak, magic. There had been a lot of things holding Roswell down, clipping their wings and keeping them from adding vermillion to the blue of the sky and the ochre of the sandstone. But there's nothing between them and the sky now, and there must be some bird instincts still left in them because it aches every time they gaze heavensward. 

Sometimes Roswell can see two moons in the sky, and they wonder how Magnus is doing. Maybe one day they will fly to the moon. Maybe they'll see all of Faerun after all. 

Roswell picks themself off the desk in the Sheriff's office. Dawn is coming, and they can hear the opening notes of the birdsong that accompanies the first golden rays over the canyon. It is not eleven AM on a fateful horrible day. It is not the apocalypse. And even if the sun is shining and the birds are singing, it is not the very last day at all. 

Roswell flits to the open window. They should listen while they can, all the same.


End file.
